


The Muse on the Bus

by elliemoran



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, Coffee Shops, M/M, Museums, Public Transportation, Sculpture, Victuuri Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliemoran/pseuds/elliemoran
Summary: Yuuri is under pressure to draw - something, anything - and the only place he seems to be able to break through his artist's block is on the bus.And then one day, the most beautiful man he's ever seen steps onto that bus, and nothing will ever be the same again.





	The Muse on the Bus

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the YOI reverse big bang 2017, based off the idea and art by hannpaints. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

Yuuri swiped his pass across the reader, slipping his backpack off his shoulder as he made his way down the aisle. His favorite seat was – thankfully – still empty, though he’d gotten off work late enough that he’d worried if it was even worth trying for this bus. They’d had a constant rush of people coming through the museum café all day, and as Yuuri had been the only one working with more than a week of experience he hadn’t wanted to leave the others on their own.

He’d been relieved when Minami had bounced in a full half hour early for his evening shift, happy to take over. The younger man was as competent as Yuuri behind the counter, and far better at dealing with new recruits.  

Of which there were always many. The café’s manager doubled as one of the museum curators, and tended to hire new staff solely based on their art portfolio. Which in some ways _was_ a great thing for the café, based as it was in the grand, glass covered courtyard of the city’s sprawling art museum, but it also meant that they were constantly training new staff as old ones moved on. Minami had worked at the café since his first semester at the Art Institute – the same arts college Yuuri had graduated from – and at almost two years had lasted longer than any other employee, with the notable exception of Yuuri.

And Yuuri did his very best not to think about how long _he’d_ been around.

The manager, a burly, heavily bearded man who at first glance looked as out of place in the café as he did gently handling the delicate art he loved so much, actually _was_ just as useless in the café as he appeared. The museum’s board of directors had placed him over the café when his predecessor retired – since they’d had to appoint _somebody_ \-  a few months after Yuuri was hired, and from their first day working together Yuuri had realized that Mr. Thomas Buck was probably going to be useless.

And the man had more than lived up to his expectations. Mr. Buck couldn’t heat coffee in the pre-programmed kettles without burning it, and rarely went an hour without breaking a cup, a saucer, a jug, and had even, on one memorable day, managed to snap a metal spoon in half and somehow catapult one end halfway across the café into a customer’s cup, splashing coffee across both occupants of that table.

The final straw had been the day he’d tripped on the leg of the counter that held the café’s giant industrial espresso machine. The thick leg had cracked and then - when he’d grabbed ahold to try and save himself from hitting the floor – the entire counter had slowly started to keel over. Yuuri and another long-since-gone employee had managed to hold everything up long enough to shove one of the half-size fridges underneath as a brace, though Yuuri had almost been gored by one of the steamer wands in the process.

So all the staff had collectively banned Mr. Buck from working in the cafe. Since the manager was happy enough to leave everything to the others, and since the very few times he’d been forced to make an appearance after that generally ended with him getting very grumpy and then running away to hide in the archives, no one asked Mr. Buck to cover when things got busy.

So Yuuri had waited for Minami to arrive for his shift, and had risked hitting the start of rush hour.

But while another half-hour or so would see the bus full of people heading home from the high-rise offices and shops that took up the blocks around the museum, for now most of the seats were still empty, leaving plenty of room for the few who – for one reason or another – kept to other schedules.

He recognized a few of the passengers he passed, faces familiar enough to him now that he had started to think of them as his regulars. Most, though, were new to him.

As subtly as he could manage, he eyed each passenger as he made his way up the aisle, trying to pick out the ones that interested him the most. A weary eyed woman in faded scrubs stared fixedly out the window, looking as though she hadn’t slept in days; and further back, a young man in a suit sat stiffly on the edge of his seat, freshly clipped hair gleaming, a battered portfolio clutched to his chest.

Yuuri’s fingers twitched and he had his bag unzipped, sketchpad and pencil in his hands almost before he’d dropped into his seat.

The bus heaved into motion as Yuuri started sketching, his pencil flying as he tried to capture as much as possible of the anxious lines of the nervous kid’s back and shoulders, and the rigidly straight neck. He’d just settled into his seat, knees propped up on the chair in front of him, when he was distracted by the day-glo pink jumpsuit of one of his regulars. The elderly woman, her unlikely red hair clashing beautifully with her jacket, was smiling fondly at the occupant of the seat opposite hers, a young man trying to corral his two very active, giggly young children.   

Not taking his eyes off of the woman’s creased face, Yuuri flipped to a blank page, wiggled to wedge his knees more comfortably against the seat in front of him, and started sketching in earnest.

He barely noticed the motion of the bus, long experience having taught him to compensate for the sways and jerks.

This wasn’t _his_ bus, exactly. Or at least it was, but in the opposite direction. The apartment he shared with Phichit, one of his former classmates, was only a couple minutes from the museum, but he’d developed the habit of taking the long way around when he could manage it. It took about forty-five minutes to get home in good traffic, closer to two hours in bad. On a good day – and today looked like it would be a good day - he‘d fill pages and pages with sketches.  

He liked it. There was a constant, ever-changing stream of faces, none of whom knew him, or anything about him.

Not one of them had any expectations.

_Oh yeah. About those expectations…_

Squashing the thought and every other that tried to come along with it, Yuuri pressed down with his pencil hard enough that he almost tore a hole in the paper before he made himself relax.

He’d spent weeks moping around coffee shops, bookstores, random park benches, trying to find a place to draw that didn’t make him feel like every person in the vicinity was staring at him. Or worse, over his shoulder at his sketchpad.

He’d almost given up a _so_ many times, but that always led to him alone in his room barely able to draw a straight line without hating it, and by extension, himself. At least outside on bad days he could distract himself with the scenery, such as it was.

He’d found this bus almost by accident, and it had turned out to be very nearly perfect. His favorite seat was usually empty – a half-floor level up from the front, high enough to give him a mostly uninterrupted view of the other passengers, and far enough back that he wasn’t constantly having to hide his sketchpad as people passed him.

It had taught him to be fast – there was no way of telling when the person you were drawing would get off, and more than a few times he’d only just get going when the person would shift or get blocked by another passenger and he’d have to abandon the sketch. Funnily enough, he didn’t have as much trouble with any of his regulars - they seemed to stay extra still, comparatively, and once or twice he could have sworn they stayed on past their usual stops when he was drawing them.

Pure coincidence, of course. He’d never once caught any of them even looking in his direction when he'd turned to check the few times he’d felt like he might be being watched.

So no-one paid him much attention, and this bus had become his favorite place to draw.  

The bus slowed to a stop, and beyond idly hoping there weren’t too many tourists waiting to get on and block his view, Yuuri paid no attention. He got on at the museum’s service entrance on the far side of the expansive city block, but this same bus looped around several streets to stop at the main public entrance too. He did notice they’d been stopped longer than usual, but it wasn’t until he saw the red-haired woman’s head turn, and her eyes widen with something like awe that Yuuri started to wonder what was happening.

And then he heard an abrupt, gravelly laugh from the direction of the driver’s seat, and his head snapped up.

It couldn’t be the driver. The man rarely spoke, if a grunt would do. Deep grooves scored the man’s forehead and bracketed a mouth that never so much as twitched, his dour face set in the perpetual frown that Yuuri loved to draw - when he could get a decent enough angle.

Yuuri couldn’t imagine the driver smiling, let alone _laughing_.

But he was. Even as Yuuri watched, he saw the weather-worn cheeks crease into a grin as the man shook his head up at the person standing beside him.

Yuuri’s eyes shifted, and he gasped.

The most beautiful man he’d ever seen stood smiling back at the driver. Pale, silvery hair, slightly wind-tossed, lay above neat and perfect features. The gently angled face was both appealing and a little distant, like something out of the old fairy tales Yuuri’s sister had read to him when he’d been young - the ones that tended to give him bloody nightmares. The kind where you had to be careful who you accepted favors from.  

The man stood with a large suitcase beside him, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was holding a giant, muddled pile of what looked like bus, or maybe train passes, with some longer slips that Yuuri thought might be airplane tickets.  

Yuuri couldn’t hear their conversation, but finally, with a shake of his head, the driver reached out and flicked through the wad. He plucked a ticket out, scanned it, and handed it back. He waved, and the man, easily adjusting his suitcase, made his way back into the bus.

The driver was still chuckling to himself as he closed the doors and shifted the bus into gear. The chuckle might have shocked Yuuri if he’d been able to pay it any attention.

 The beautiful man eased to a stop in front of an empty pair of seats set against the wall, and wrapped an elegantly gloved hand around a handlebar just as the bus started moving. A few other passengers smiled at him, almost as if they knew him, though Yuuri couldn’t imagine how. The red-haired woman waved, beaming, and another of Yuuri’s regulars, a stooped, ancient looking man in a neatly pressed brown suit, nodded at him. 

It wasn’t until he started feeling a little lightheaded that Yuuri realized he’d stopped breathing.

The bus turned a corner with some speed, and the man easily shifted his weight. He eased the duffel bag to a better position on his shoulder, and tucked the large, hard shelled suitcase between his legs and the empty seat behind him. His movements were relaxed, smooth.  

He really was beautiful.

Yuuri was desperate to draw him, but he didn’t want to look away long enough to find the sketchpad or pencil, even though they were probably still in his lap. Instead, he drank in every detail, staring as openly as he ever had.

It wasn’t as if he’d never seen attractive people before. Some of the models brought in to the Institute had been striking, beautiful, _perfect_. He wasn’t the only student more interested in the ones who weren’t necessarily conventionally pretty, but whose faces or bodies held something other. Yuuri liked the ones that made him curious about the lives they had – or still – lived. Turned out feet, comfortably lumpy curves, hollows and sharp angles, bent or rigidly straight spines, even the peculiar angle of a person’s chin had always been far more fascinating to Yuuri than even features.

But the man currently standing a bit more than half the length of a bus away from him was beautiful and striking and also made Yuuri’s fingers itch to draw his entire body, face, everything.

The shoulders beneath the thick spring coat – expensively well fitted, even to Yuuri’s eyes – were broad, clearly well-muscled, not bulky. He showed an easy strength in the easy co-ordination of his movements as he kept his balance and controlled his bags. A corner of Yuuri’s mind wanted to be amused at his own fascination and whimsy – but everything added to the first impression Yuuri had had of some old fae prince, regal, somehow a little unworldly, and yet powerful and very, very alive.

Yuuri’s eyes lingered on the man’s gloved hand, long, graceful fingers wrapped firmly around the bar, and couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he suddenly felt heat flood his cheeks. Quickly shifting his gaze, he focused instead on the way pale, almost silvery hair shifted lightly at the nape of the man’s neck, drifting over his scarf.

The odd clench in his stomach slowly faded away, and Yuuri continued to study every part of the man he could see. One small part of his mind was aware he’d likely never get the chance again after today. His chest filled with dread at every stop of the bus, and then, when the man didn’t get off, he would fiercely hope they stayed where they were for as long as possible.

He’d never wished harder for a bad traffic jam in his life.

They’d gone barely four more blocks when the driver slowed to a stop at the end of a long cul-de-sac lined by tall, stately, brick townhouses, the fronts mostly hidden by the thickly green trees lining the street and filling the small park that ran down the center of the road.

The man hitched the duffel bag higher on his shoulder, eased his suitcase with him to the front of the bus, and then, with a cheery wave, stepped off onto the pavement.

Yuuri almost threw himself against the window, oblivious to the loud thunk his glasses made as he plastered himself against the tinted glass. He watched as the man, walking easily despite his bags, disappeared from sight just past the first house.

Yuuri kept watching, hoping the man would reappear somewhere between the trees. After a long minute he let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging.

A slightly awkward cough made him flinch.

Slowly, Yuuri turned his head to find the curious faces of every other passenger turned in his direction. Even the two wiggly children had finally gone still, eyes very wide as they stared back at him. Yuuri’s eyes tracked forward, and met the driver’s in the mirror – he wasn’t smiling anymore, but Yuuri couldn’t help feel as if there was something like sympathy in the familiar downward curve of the man’s mouth.

Slowly, with great care, Yuuri pulled away from the window and sank back into his seat. He wished he could sink through the floor too.

He risked one more glance up as the bus took off again, very glad to find everyone pointedly looking away. He busied himself gathering up his sketching supplies, which had luckily landed on the seat beside him rather than the floor. He wasn’t going to be drawing any other passengers for the moment, at least, so he tucked everything away and wrapped his arms around his bag, letting his mind wander back to the beautiful man.  

The rest of the ride was a blur to Yuuri, and when he briefly made eye contact with the driver as he stepped off in front of his apartment complex he almost forgot to feel embarrassed.

Absently, by ingrained habit, he stopped to check the mail box on his way through the lobby and then instantly slammed the door shut when he saw the large manila envelope squashed inside.

He knew Phichit would probably bring it upstairs anyway, but he’d pretend it didn’t exist for as long as he could. Just as he’d done for the last two large manila envelopes that had arrived by mail, and the one he’d found stuffed into his locker at the café.

For a moment he distracted himself with the thought that maybe the envelope would just disappear on its own. Maybe it wasn’t even for him. Maybe the mailman had meant to put it in someone else’s slot, and it’d be gone before Yuuri came down in the morning.

It was possible that it wasn’t even from _them_. He’d only gotten a brief glimpse before he’d slammed the door shut, after all. Maybe what he’d thought was that familiar red ink sigil on the top left corner was actually something else entirely. Maybe some insurance company, or something equally unimportant.

Yuuri seized on the possibility, and almost managed to convince himself it was possible – though he didn’t manage to convince himself enough to go back and check. Instead, he ignored the dragging weight in his stomach as he marched across the lobby and punched the button at the center of the bank of elevators.

And then Yuuri let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, consciously trying to call up as much detail as he could of the beautiful man from the bus.

Happily lost in dreaming, he didn’t see the startled look on the face of the woman getting off the elevator as they passed each other, and paid no attention to the dreamy look on his own face, reflected in the elevator’s mirrored walls. He’d managed to entirely forget the contents of his mailbox long before he stepped off on his floor and made his way to stand in front of his apartment door.

He’d just reached into his bag for his key when he realized he didn’t know what color the man’s eyes were.

It was a huge omission, and Yuuri stood lost in thought until a muffled laugh and the sudden opening of the apartment door in front of him startled him back to an awareness of his surroundings. He blinked at the three faces looking back at him, each showing varying levels of amusement and concern.

Sara – whose expression held the most concern – stepped forward, reaching out a hand to lightly touch his arm.

“Yuuri? Did something happen?”

He shook his head, glancing past her to the much less concerned, far more amused faces of Phichit, and Mila.

Phichit, of course, knew him better than anyone, and Yuuri had known Mila since they’d both almost killed themselves working together on a team project in their first year for the Institute’s most notoriously demonic professor, but he’d only known Sara for a few months, since she’d moved in next door with Mila, so she tended to be a little more alarmed by the things the other two took for normal.

“No. No, I was just remembering something.”

And Phichit grinned broadly at him. “Something? Or someone?”

“Someone.” Yuuri let out a long sigh, letting his mind’s eye drift back. “He was… incredible.”

Phichit’s eyes widened. “You _can’t_ leave it at that,” He stepped to the side of the doorway, holding it open as he gestured the two in the hall to come back inside. “Tell us everything.”

“Yes, do tell.” Sara, concern gone, slid her arm through his. She kicked off her tall, skinny black heels as she tugged him into the apartment.

“But weren’t you heading out somewhere?” Yuuri protested as they made their way into the main room of the cramped apartment, looking at the decidedly _not_ stay-at-home outfits the others were wearing – Phichit in his favorite shirt, the girls both in short, pretty dresses.

“This is far more interesting.” Mila said, plopping down on one side of the futon, the silky hem of her skirt fluttering around her as she settled back against the cushions they’d piled on to try and make the ancient, floor height sofa comfortable. “Besides, you’re supposed to come with us.”

“JJ’s party.” Phichit said, by way of explanation, at Yuuri’s blank look. “You told him you’d be there.”

“Oh, I forgot.” And Yuuri _had_ forgotten, but while he definitely had told JJ he’d go, he’d also fully intended to come up with some excellent, airtight reason he couldn’t.

“I know.” Phichit was grinning at him. “And I didn’t remind you because then you’d probably have taken an extra shift at work tonight. Or something.”

Yuuri felt his cheeks flush. He smiled ruefully back at Phichit. “Or something.”

“Enough of that. Who is this someone? Do we know them?” Mila said eagerly as Sara sank down to the futon beside her, angling her body sideways into one of the few comfortable positions the sofa allowed, and leaving the boys to settle into the two mismatched armchairs.  

Yuuri shook his head. “I’ve definitely never seen him before, and I don’t know how I’d see him again. He was taking the bus from the museum.”

Sara sat up straight, excited. “But maybe he works there too!”

“No, he got on at the public entrance.” But Yuuri felt the first flash of hope, “But he didn’t seem like a tourist. He had a bag, and the biggest suitcase I’ve ever seen.”

Mila tugged at Sara’s propped up legs to pull the other girl’s bare feet into her lap. “So you’ll probably see him again.”

“I’m not sure, he seemed…fancy.” He answered Mila’s earlier comment, though it hadn’t really been a question.  

“Fancy?” Phichit asked.

“His clothes, and the neighborhood he got off at. His bags didn’t look cheap either.”  Yuuri let his mind drift back. “And the way he moved was just...something else.”

“Well if anyone could figure out anything about him just from watching him, it would be you.” Phichit grinned at him. “I’m guessing you didn’t get to talk?”

“No. No.”  Yuuri shook his head fiercely. “Just looked. Stared, actually.” He felt a flash of remembered embarrassment, stronger now than it had been on the bus.

“Oh, well. Next time, you’ll have to ask him to sit for you properly.”

“Next time?” Yuuri blinked at Phichit.

“When you see him again. You’ll have to ask him to sit for you so you can find out more about him.”

“He can’t ask the man to sit for him _first_.” Mila said.

“Why not?” Phichit asked.

She scoffed. “That’ll scare him off. They have to have at least talk first. A date would be better.”

Yuuri choked. “ _Date_. What are you-”

“See, that’s too much for him. Yuuri’ll never be able to manage asking him for a date first.”

“But Phichit, most people get a little freaked out if someone you’ve never even talked to asks you to go off somewhere private with them so they can use you as a model. It’s not usually a good sign.” Sara interjected. “And it’d be hard to get to the dating part if he kept running away after that.”

“Look, guys-”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Phichit tapped at his lips, not hearing Yuuri’s spluttering. “I suppose you could arrange for them to run into each other accidentally at least twice first. But that might be harder to arrange. And we shouldn’t wait, Yuuri hasn’t been interested in anyone for ages.”

“I still think they need to have at least one date – even just coffee.” Mila insisted.

“He _was_ leaving the museum, though.” Sara said, “If he’s an artist then asking for a sitting wouldn’t come across as too weird, but it’d be risky. He’d have to gauge it when he talks to him.”    

“I’m not going to talk to him” Yuuri finally managed to get in.

All three faces turned to face him, surprised. He wondered if they’d forgotten he was there.

“You can’t get a date if you don’t talk to him.” Sara spoke reasonably, as if she thought Yuuri hadn’t thought the thing through.

“Or even have him sit for you.” Mila added.

“No. No date, or- or anything. I just wanted to draw him. From a distance.” He added the last to cut off the words Mila had opened her mouth to say. She wrinkled her nose at him. 

Phichit sighed. “Ok, ok. Baby steps. What does he look like? We’ll track him down. It’ll be easier for you if you know where he’ll be.” And at the look on Yuuri’s face, he added, “From a distance.”

And since Yuuri really did want to see the man again, he described him, haltingly at first and then with more assurance. “He’s…pretty. Pale hair, almost a platinum color, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it before. I didn’t see his eyes,” and Yuuri frowned at the remembered realization, “but he’s got a little bit of a pointed chin, a good jaw. High forehead. He moves really… nicely. Graceful, and with a sort of strength.”

Yuuri flushed at the grinning looks the others were giving him, but plowed on. “I think he’s at leasthad some dance training, if he isn’t a dancer.” He sent his mind back for more, closing his eyes to call up as much detail as possible. “He was wearing a coat, I think a peacoat is what it’s called? And a scarf, and leather gloves.”  

The image behind his eyelids seemed to solidify, and suddenly, Yuuri knew he had to get it down on paper.  

Eyes flying open, he jumped to his feet, as smoothly as he could from the overstuffed recliner. “I have to go.”

Sara blinked up at him. “Go?”

“I have to draw.” He was already backing away, edging towards his room.

Phichit glanced at the clock above the kitchenette at one side of the room. “JJ’s thing started a half hour ago.”

“I just- a bit. Later. We can be late right? Wait for me. Give me twenty minutes. I have to go. Now.”

“Ok.” A smile slowly spread across Phichit’s face, his eyes twinkled. “We’ll wait. Go draw.”

Yuuri had already forgotten the others as he slammed open the door to his room. Scrambling for his favorite pencils – they were too precious for him to take to work with him – and a sketchpad, he was already sketching before his butt hit the chair.

Almost desperately, Yuuri drew. He started with the hand, the flash of white skin he’d seen peeking out at the wrist, then the man’s profile, and onto the curve of the hip, the line of broad shoulders. He filled pages with bits and pieces, and then, when the need to keep drawing didn’t do more than ebb slightly, he started on full sketches, remembering the smile on the man’s face, the way he’d tilted his head slightly as he’d held that giant pile of whatever out to the driver – not quite diffident, but certainly asking for help. He thought of the way the man had stood, fluidly immovable as the bus had swerved its way through the streets.

Yuuri’s frantic pace slowed, spending longer on each sketch as he added as much detail as he could remember. He didn’t notice time passing.

After a while he started tacking a few of the sketches up on the blank wall in front of his desk, mostly as a reminder of what he’d already drawn, but also because he was starting to actually like what he was producing.

All through school and his first few years at college his walls had been filled with art. Mostly artists he admired, or tried to learn from – but sometimes a few pieces of his own he actually let himself feel proud of. His own artwork had come down long before he’d headed into his final year at the Institute, and then bit by bit he’d found it harder to be reminded of the artists whose level he had once aspired to. Gradually, their posters had come down too. He’d had walls covered only with paint for a while now.

When he finally surfaced, he blinked up at the wall in front of him. The whole space in front of the desk was covered, and he leaned back in his chair, a deep satisfaction warming his chest.

And then he realized the room was lit by the overhead light, not the early evening sun that had streamed in through the window when he’d first come home. There was a cold mug of tea by his elbow and he realized Phichit or one of the girls must have been in the room at some point, though he had no recollection of it.

He stretched, feeling his joints crackle, the ache in his lower back, neck, and wrists. His fingers stung enough to tell him, even if he hadn’t had a wall full of art in front of him to prove it, that he hadn’t drawn as much as this in a very, very long time.

These sketches were good. Not perfect, especially as it was all from memory, but he wasn’t entirely dissatisfied with them for once.

His stomach growled just as he caught the faint smell of something cooking. Almost without thought, and with a happy sigh, he stood and followed the scent.

The main room of the apartment served triple duty as their living room, kitchen, and dining room, all in a space barely larger than Yuuri’s parent’s bedroom. Yuuri and Phichit each had a cramped bedroom, shared a tiny bathroom, occasionally tripped over each other, and knew they were very lucky to have found the place. This part of the city was expensive but the owner of the building charged less than he could have, in exchange for also spending less than he could have on maintenance. So while it only took them minutes to get to the Art Institute, or to the city’s shops, restaurants, museums, theaters, and parks, they also knew better than to call the office for a plugged drain or a leak if they wanted it handled anytime soon. Instead, the residents of the creaky old apartment building knew each other better than most in the city, and the ones with any trace of handyman skills rarely ever needed to cook a meal for themselves. 

Phichit stood beside the narrow stove, a pair of plates set out on the even narrower counter beside it. Yuuri’s nose hadn’t been wrong. He watched Phichit tilt the pan to slide perfectly cooked eggs onto the plates, beside crisped strips of bacon.

Yuuri almost staggered towards the plates. “Thank you, Phichit. I’m completely empty.” He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and it wasn’t until that moment that Yuuri remembered he’d spent his lunch break picking up cream for the café. He’d been living off of coffee since breakfast that morning.

Phichit glanced over his shoulder, smiling at Yuuri. “I was going to come in and see if I could get your attention if I didn’t hear from you soon.”

“I think you did, I’m pretty sure it was the smell of bacon that got me.” Yuuri pulled open a drawer and took out forks and knives, laying them on the tiny table that was all that would fit in the space between the kitchen and the closest armchair. “Want some toast?”

“Already done.” As if on cue, the toaster thunked, and two gently browned slices of toast popped up.

Yuuri carefully plucked out the toast, dropping it onto the plates. He shook his head in amazement. “How you make that thing co-operate I don’t know. I either get charcoal or warm bread.”

Phichit laughed. “It takes some patience.”

It wasn’t until Yuuri was about to sink into one of the plastic chairs at the table that he finally remembered. “Oh- I forgot. JJ’s thing.” He glanced up at the clock, and his eyes widened as he noticed it was already well past one in the morning. His head swung around at Phichit’s laugh.

“Yes, well. You told us to wait for you.”

“I did?” Yuuri tried to remember exactly what he’d said as he’d escaped to his room earlier. His eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no. I really did.”

Phichit sat and idly picked up his fork. He grinned up at Yuuri. “We waited and waited.”

“Oh, no.” Yuuri repeated. “I’m so sorry.”

Phichit laughed. “Don’t be. We were all so glad to see you drawing. We went without you.” He cocked an eyebrow up at the still standing Yuuri. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Yuuri shook his head and dropped into his seat.

“I did have to tell JJ you’d go next time, for sure,” and Phichit smiled at the expression Yuuri didn’t bother to hide from his friend, but carried on “It’s good to go, every now and then. And most of the people that go to JJ’s things lately are good people. He cocked his head as he thought about the words he’d just said. “I wonder about that.”

With a sigh, Yuuri picked up his fork and started eating, gratefully. “I know. I think it’s his fiancé. She’s actually got a pretty good radar.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll go next time.” He did sometimes have fun, once he got there. For a little while at least, and as JJ lived only a few floors down it wasn’t hard to slip out and head home when he ran out of steam. “Promise.”

“Good.” Phichit smiled, and then remembered something. “I almost forgot.” He stretched over to pick up something from the recliner nearest them. “This was in the mail. I checked the box because Professor Cialdini asked me to make sure you’d gotten it.”

The eggs turned to sawdust in Yuuri’s mouth. Avoiding eye contact, Yuuri took the envelope and set it very cautiously on the floor next to his chair. He stared down at his plate as he fought to squash the heavy weight in his stomach.

“Professor Cialdini seemed really worried. He said he’d asked them to resend you the paperwork as he’d heard the contest’s committee hadn’t gotten your submission form yet. He thought maybe you’d lost it.”

“Ah – no, I already filled it out.” Yuuri carefully cut off the edges, making a perfect square of the toast.

“So you did submit it?”

Stuffing a piece of crust into his mouth, Yuuri shook his head.

“Yuuri.” Phichit sounded worried. “You have to submit it. You can’t not enter the contest this year.”

“I know that.”

A long silence. “Is that what’s been worrying you for the past month?”

_More like the past four years._

But Yuuri just shrugged, not meeting Phichit’s eyes as he spoke around the food he stuffed into his mouth. “A little.”

“Oh, Yuuri.” Phichit sounded sympathetic, but his words were firm. “It’ll be so much worse if you don’t. Everyone will want to know why, and you won’t be able to avoid them all.”

“I know.” Yuuri forced down the last bite, and jumped to his feet. He clattered the silverware onto his plate and turned to the sink, turning the water as high as it would go. The water pressure was, unfortunately, down to almost nothing – they’d have to bribe one of the neighbors over to fix it – so it was far too weak to drown out anything Phichit said. Yuuri grabbed the cooled frying pan and set to work, scrubbing as hard as he could.

“Will you set out the paperwork before you leave in the morning? I’ll drop it off on my way in.”

“Sure, sure.”  Yuuri set the pan on drying rack, and with a deliberate yawn, edged towards his room. “Well, I’m off to bed.”

“Ok, Yuuri.” Phichit smiled ruefully back at him. “Sleep well.”

Yuuri felt a flush of shame as he pulled the door shut behind him. They both knew he was running away.

It wasn’t that Yuuri didn’t know he was going to have to enter the damned contest, but even the thought of everything that came with it made him feel sick. He closed his eyes, and saw the faces of all his former professors, the committee, all those reporters, the people, even the museum staff. All judging him and his art. It had been bad enough last time, four years ago, but this time would be far, far worse.

Slowly, he stepped forward until he could drop onto the bed, roll himself into his blanket, and wedge himself against the wall.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Finally Yuuri threw the blanket off, jumped to his feet, and went back to sketching the beautiful man from the bus.

 

__

 

Yawning, Yuuri shuffled to the next set of shelves in the café’s walk in fridge. The weekly stock check was taking him twice the time it normally did – he was exhausted. He’d dropped into bed as the first of the city’s birds started chirping, and managed barely two hours of sleep before he’d dragged himself up into a cold shower, and then off to work.

But, despite his exhaustion, he felt oddly happy. For the first time in a long while, the idea of going home to draw actually seemed _fun_.

With a jaw-cracking yawn, Yuuri initialed the last line on the page fastened to his clipboard and stepped out of the fridge, pushing the door shut to seal it firmly behind him.

His shift was nearly over, and he’d been trying to decide between taking the bus directly home so he could get back to his desk faster, or taking the long way.

_And then maybe you’ll see him again._

“Yuuri, could you come help for a minute?” One of the new staff, a dark eyed girl whose name Yuuri couldn’t quite remember - Jennifer? He thought it was Jennifer - poked her head around the door to the café’s back room. Yuuri put down the clipboard and followed her out.

He saw at a glance that they’d gotten busy since the last time he’d checked on them, and he sent one of the others - he was mostly sure the kid’s name was Fujiwara - out to collect cups from the tables, stationed the girl at the register, and starting helping the last of the three to catch up on all the orders. _Her_ name was Kate. She’d been working at the café for nearly a month, so he knew that one for sure.

It took another half hour, almost to the end of Yuuri’s shift, before they had all the orders handled and the empty tables cleared. He glanced around, satisfied. The team today were all pretty good. If they stuck around long enough he thought they’d do okay.

A loud thump had him glancing over to the far corner of the courtyard. When he’d come in that morning he’d found a crew in bright yellow jackets and hardhats already cordoning off a portion of the café floor. They’d set up rigging and were doing something on the fourth floor, high above the ground.

Now he saw they’d entirely pulled a window out from the wall, and were carefully hoisting long sections of white piping up and through the hole they’d made. The thud had been one end of the pipe hitting the wall, and Yuuri winced a little, wondering what could possibly have convinced the museum’s board of directors to risk damaging the building with whatever they were doing. The board was not known for their adventurous spirit.

And then Yuuri was distracted again as Jennifer plopped the heavy tray of freshly steamed cups onto the counter and started stacking them back onto their shelves. They were running low. They’d used up all the available cups several times during the day, and even now only had enough to fill barely half of the space allotted.

With a frown, he eyed the phone behind the counter and thought about the stock list he’d been working on. He wasn’t sure he was up to dealing with Mr. Buck today, but they really were running out of cups, and spoons, and tea, and just about everything else, and that made it all the more difficult for the new hires to keep up when they got busy. 

So Yuuri sighed and reached for the handset.

“Buck here. What d’you want.” The voice was terse, and Yuuri already wished he could hang up.

“Sorry, Mr. Buck, this is Yuuri. We need to put in a requisiti-”

“Oh, Yuuri. I was just about to call you.” Mr. Buck’s suddenly hearty voice interrupted Yuuri, and in spite of himself Yuuri let himself be diverted. 

“You were?” 

“Yes, yes. About that new artist, the big exhibit coming up. You know.”

“Big exhibit?” Yuuri most definitely had no idea what the manager was talking about.

“Yes, yes. The big exhibit they’re putting in for the summer, with that famous sculptor person. The one the board is adding all that new plumbing for.” He added as if that should make it all clearer.

Yuuri was only getting more confused. “Why are they putting in new plumbing for a temporary exhibit?”

“For the _statues_ , of course.” Mr. Buck sounded disgusted.

“Right.” Yuuri closed his eyes, deciding he didn’t really want to understand anyway. “What did you need me for?”

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” And the man’s voice actually sounded even heartier, which instantly worried Yuuri. “Because I told the board we would handle the catering for the opening night gala.”

“You _what_.”

“Well of course I _had_ to assure them it wouldn’t be a problem. A few of the board members were actually quite unpleasantly persistent about it all.”

Yuuri opened his mouth, shut it again, and then sighed. There was no point in trying to explain. Instead, he put on his most authoritative voice. “Mr. Buck. That won’t work.”

“Of course it will. I mean after all we _are_ a café. It can’t be all that much more trouble than that.”

“No, Mr. Buck. I’m sorry. We aren’t… it just won’t work.” They weren’t caterers, and there was no way they could handle an event like this with the current staff, no supplies, and likely knowing the museum and Mr. Buck’s immense fear of the museum’s accountant, no budget either. Although – and he glanced up at the corner of the covered courtyard - if they liked whoever this sculptor was enough to put in new plumbing, maybe, for once, budget wouldn’t be a problem. “You’ll have to go back and tell them they need to hire an actual caterer.”

“Well.” Mr Buck huffed out a breath. “That’s quite impossible.”

Yuuri imagined wrapping the phone cord around the man’s thick neck. “Mr. Buck, we aren’t caterers. And think of what the board would say if we tried to do it, and ended up messing it up.”

A long silence. And then, finally, “Fine. But I still think we _could_.”

“No, Mr. Buck.” And Yuuri remembered why he’d called in the first place. “Also, we need to place a requisition form in for more supplies-” He began, when the manager cut him off.

“What? What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

Yuuri closed his eyes, trying for patience. “We need cups, Mr. Buck. Urgently, and spoons, and-” and a long hiss made him pull the phone a little away from his ear.

“I can’t hear you,” and again the long hiss, “we must have a terrible connection,” and Yuuri heard the crackle of something that sounded remarkably like a piece of paper being wrinkled by the receiver.

“Mr. Buck-”

“Oh, dear, such a bad line.” The noise continued. “Must go. Bye for now, Yuuri.” And then the phone beeped in Yuuri’s ear as Mr. Buck hung up on him.

Yuuri counted to ten, and then to twenty. He was too tired to muster up the energy to be truly angry, but he was having a hard time not smacking the phone in his hand against the counter until it shattered.

“Yuuri?” He turned at the sound of Minami’s voice. “Everything okay?”

“Just the manager. We need to put in a request for- all sorts of things.”

“Ah.” Minami grinned at him as he tied the string of his apron behind his waist. “Sorry. If he comes by I’ll stuff the list in his pocket.”

“Thanks. At least then he can’t pretend he never got it.” With a long sigh, Yuuri very gently set the phone back in its cradle. He stood up straight, stretching. “I’m off.”

Minami cheerfully waved him away. “Good. I’ll be early tomorrow so you won’t have to stay late.”

“Appreciate it.” Yuuri stripped off his apron as he made his way to the back, only just catching Minami’s voice as the younger man spoke to the girl still behind the counter.

“Looks like you’re settling in, Julie.”

_Julie. Oops._

And then Yuuri forgot about everything else as he remembered.

He might see _him_ again.

 

\--

In the end, Yuuri didn’t see the beautiful man that day, or the next, and the two days after that were both evening weekend shifts.

So when he went back to his usual shift on Monday, Yuuri did his best to not even let himself hope as the bus pulled up to the museum’s main entrance, but couldn’t help sagging back in his seat when there was no sign of the man as the bus closed the doors and started to pull out into traffic.

_He must have been a tourist, after all._

And then the bus slowed again, and the driver opened the doors, giving one of his rusty laughs as the man jumped up the stairs, already holding out a single slip of paper.

He still had a duffel bag over his shoulder, though no suitcase. The day was mild, but he wore the same coat, and gloves. Today’s were gray, not the deep brown ones he’d worn last time.

Yuuri couldn’t suppress the broad grin he felt stretching across his face, and was glad the man wasn’t looking his way.

He _wasn’t_ just a tourist.

It took Yuuri precious minutes to remember the sketchbook lying ready in his lap, and with a shake of his head he went to work. The day was milder, so the man’s coat was open, and Yuuri could see more of his torso. His face was still turned away enough that Yuuri couldn’t catch his eye color, but he was a little closer today and Yuuri was getting a better view of the man’s profile.

The platinum hair shifted with every move the man made. Yuuri desperately wanted to run his fingers through the fine strands to see if they really were as silky as they looked.

This time, he was ready when the man swung off the bus. He edged over, glasses a careful half inch from the window as he watched the man disappear down the tree shadowed street. He strained his eyes, but there really was no way of seeing where the man went without getting off the bus and following him. He didn’t even know what use it was to know what house the man went into, anyway, though that didn’t stop him from trying to work it out.

_He’s still here._

With a happy sigh, Yuuri leaned back in his chair as the bus carried on.

 

\--

 

He all but ran to the elevator as soon as he made it through the foyer door, and stood impatiently as he waited for the car to arrive. He’d eyed the stairway, but knew better. They lived on the sixth floor, and he wasn’t in shape enough to beat the elevator.

When he let himself into the apartment, Phichit was sitting on one of the couches, doing something with his phone. Yuuri waved at him, but didn’t stop as walked straight towards his room.

“He was there?” Phichit’s face lit up.

“Yup.” And with a giant grin, Yuuri disappeared behind his door.

 

__

 

A pattern emerged. Though the man wasn’t on the bus every day it was always the same one, a half hour after Yuuri’s usual shift ended.

The man would usually have his duffel bag – black and Gucci. Yuuri, with Phichit’s help, managed to find it online for a price that awed both of them. Sometimes he’d be carrying nothing. Once he had the giant suitcase, and another he was carrying a cardboard tube, almost a thick around as his waist and tall enough to reach his shoulder. 

Every time he watched the man get off the bus, Yuuri itched to get off and follow, but what little sense he had at those moments reminded him that that would officially make him a stalker.

Yuuri kept drawing, both on the bus and at home. Even at work he’d find himself doodling every chance he got. It wasn’t just the beautiful man now, either. It seemed easier to draw other people too. Maybe it was the volume he was churning out, or the fact that he was inspired enough to not have as much time to stare at the sketch he was working on before moving on to the next.

The entire wall his desk faced was covered, corner to corner, with sketches and drawings now. He was tentatively proud of a few, though no-one but Phichit was ever likely to see them.

And this weekend, almost three weeks after he’d first seen the man, Yuuri had a stretch of four full days off. His mind had occupied itself trying to work out how exactly to still see the beautiful man. His best idea so far was to stand in front of the museum until he appeared, and then sneak onto the bus behind him.

He was trying not to remember how closely that would fit the definition of stalker Mila had read to him the night before as he dropped his apron in the laundry pile, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed out of the café. His shift had ended late, so there was little chance of seeing the man today, but he would take the long bus home in any case.

The entrance to the service corridor running behind the main lobby was blocked by a group of men in hardhats and reflective jackets, maneuvering several large wooden crates through the double doors. Yuuri shifted from foot to foot waiting to slip by, but changed his mind when he glanced at his watch and saw he’d have to wait for the next bus if he didn’t get out back in the next five minutes.

So he took the shortcut through the great foyer to the service building. They weren’t supposed to, though no one really paid much attention when they did. Yuuri was actually one of the few employees that obeyed the rule, because every time he didn’t he somehow managed to run into one of the museum’s board members.

Which was why, when he heard a voice calling his name his first reaction was merely an exasperated sigh. None of the others _ever_ got caught. And then, as the voice came again, his stomach seemed to drop past his feet, all the way through the marble-tiled stone floor. He knew that voice very well.

“Yuuri!”

Fighting the desperate urge to run, Yuuri he turned to face the professor who’d been his, and was still Phichit’s mentor at the Art Institute. “Professor Cialdini.”

“It’s been so long, Yuuri. I’ve been hoping to catch you.” The professor beamed at him. “This is good timing, I’m here to introduce a few of the new teachers at the Institute to the museum board. They can all meet you at the same time. I’ve told them all about you.”

“Ah.”  

Professor Cialdini must have caught an edge of the panic that filled Yuuri, because he clearly intended his next sentence to be reassuring. “Only good things of course - I’ve been telling them all about how truly remarkable an artist you are.”

Not at all reassured, Yuuri tried to smile, though he felt sure it looked more like a grimace. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Oh yes.” The professor nodded, still beaming. “I can’t wait to show them your submission for the contest, next month. I told them how much you’ve learned since the last time. Why, you were only a junior then, and your sophomore final pieces were beyond all expectation.” His smile faltered a little. “It is a pity how large a portion of your final grade was determined by your senior year.” He hesitated, eyes searching Yuuri’s face. “I did try talking to the Institute’s board of governors, you know.”

Yuuri couldn’t quite control his breathing, and did his best to force a smile at the expectant expression on the Professor’s face. “I appreciate that, Professor.”

“Yes, well.” The professor’s face brightened. “I was so relieved when Phichit brought in your submission paperwork for the contest, I actually thought you’d decided not to enter this year.”

Shock coursed through Yuuri. “Phichit brought it in?”

“Oh yes. It was past the deadline, of course, but in the circumstances of course the committee accepted it.” He chuckled. “Very clever of you to not include a photo of your actual submission piece, quite distracted the committee, they’re all so excited waiting to see what you’ve come up with that they entirely forgot to be annoyed over the late application.” He smiled genially at Yuuri. “Of course, that wouldn’t fly in any other situation, but this is a special case, after all.”

Yuuri drew in a deep breath. “Professor, I’m not-”

And it was at that moment that Yuuri caught sight of the man, the beautiful man, striding through the wide lobby behind the professor towards the main entrance. For a moment, Yuuri hesitated, and then made up his mind.

 “I’m sorry, professor, I have to go.”

“Go?” Professor Cialdini seemed a little taken aback, but Yuuri was already sidling away when he heard the professor calling after him, “I’ll be looking forward to seeing your art again!”

Yuuri flinched inwardly, but made himself wave as he ran after the man. As he pushed through the door to the outside he saw the man was already at the bottom of the broad staircase, walking briskly enough that Yuuri knew he was trying to make the bus.

Sure enough, even as Yuuri leapt to the bottom of the stairs he saw the bus pulling up to the curb, waiting with doors open for the man. Yuuri had to race to make it before they swung shut again.

He waved his pass in front of the reader, gasping for breath as he glanced sideways into the bus. The seats were more than half occupied. The man had stopped at a bar a few seats behind the driver, and Yuuri kept his face averted as he slipped past him. His usual seat was already taken, and there was only one spot he could see that might work – a little further forward than he liked, but just far enough back that he didn’t think the man would be able to see his sketchpad.

As smoothly as possible Yuuri slipped into the seat and pulled open the zipper on his bag, trying to make as little noise as possible.

The bus labored into motion, and Yuuri held the pad at an angle in his lap. He was both alarmed and incredibly happy to be so close - there was so much more detail available, but he felt far too exposed.

Still, after the first long block, made longer by the heavy traffic, Yuuri forgot to worry about being seen. He wished he had his pastels here, or even his color pencils. He’d been trying to get the color of that hair exactly right from his memory, and once again having it in front of him told him he hadn’t captured it yet.

So he was scowling as he looked up from his sketchpad, and as their eyes met.

_They’re blue, after all. A beautiful, pale blue._

Even as one tiny portion of Yuuri’s mind made the happy discovery, the rest of him panicked.

Almost as if in slow motion, Yuuri watched those pale blue eyes track down to the pad in Yuuri’s lap, held at far too low an angle for the standing man not to get a good look. Pale eyebrows arched up into a wide forehead, and Yuuri lost the last of his ability to reason.

He jumped to his feet, yanked at the cord fiercely and, snatching up his bag, slipped towards the front of the bus. Or at least he tried to slip. He made it two steps before he felt his toe catch on someone’s foot.

His wildly grabbing arms caught only air, and he landed flat on his face. His still unzipped bag hit the ground beside him, scattering the contents out across the floor.

The bus had finally stopped, and for a moment Yuuri lay where he’d landed, listening to the immense silence around him. Slowly, he pushed himself up, only then noticing the wide panorama of sketches on various shades of white paper spread out around him.

Frantically, he pushed to his feet and scrambled to gather them all up, managing thankful mumbles as other passengers helped, gathering sketches and handing them to him in piles. He made eye contact with no-one, and as soon as he’d stuffed the last of the contents back into his bag he all leaped to the front and off the bus.

He was breathing heavily, as he stood on the sidewalk, staring with wild eyes at the shop front in front of him unitl he heard the bus roar to life and pull away. Only then did he relax – though it was more of a boneless sag – as he felt himself go weak.

The only thought in his head, aside from endless waves of embarrassment, was to hope that maybe the beautiful man hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the sketches to realize he was the subject of nearly all of them.

 

__

 

As the bus trundled on down the road, Victor’s eyes lingered on the sagging figure still standing where he’d landed when he’d jumped off the bus. It wasn’t until they turned the corner that he realized one of the other passengers – a woman with remarkable red hair – was still holding one of the sketches the man had dropped.

Angling his head, Victor leaned over, eyes widening as he recognized the profile that had been so skillfully drawn. Carefully, he reached out and took the paper from the woman. It was definitely him. No doubt about it.  

And there was something else about it that struck a familiar chord. Something in the style.

Blinking, Victor’s breath caught in his throat. His head snapped up, and he stared back in the direction the bus had come from.

And then he smiled.

 

__

 

The only encouraging remark Phichit could come up with as he, Sara, and Mila did their best to cheer Yuuri up was, “Well, maybe he was so distracted when you fell that he didn’t get a good look at your face?”

Yuuri, curled up in his blanket in a corner of his room, only moaned.

He moped around the house for the next three days until even Phichit had trouble staying cheerful around him, so on the last of his days off Yuuri swapped shifts with Minami and went back to work – in the evening.

And after a few more days of skulking around, realized it really was very easy not to see that man. Almost as if it had been all fluke that he’d seen him in the first place.

Which somehow was even more depressing than anything else.

He brought up his conversation with the professor with Phichit one night while they were watching some terrible film on Phichit’s ancient laptop. The other man had paused the film and sat up, looking back at Yuuri with concern. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, and if you’d said you weren’t going to enter I wouldn’t have done it. But you’d get so much more attention, _bad_ attention, if you didn’t enter something into this year’s contest. You know that, right?”

Yuuri had sighed, and agreed.

So the next morning, he’d hung up all of his favorite sketches – the walls of his room were nearly full again now - set a blank canvas up on the easel he hadn’t used in far too long, and sat at his desk to work out what in hell he was going to enter into the damned contest.

He sat, sketch paper in front of him, charcoal in hand, every supply he needed within reach, his eyes blindly travelling over the many sketches that filled his walls.

His head dropped to the desk with a loud thunk, and stayed there until Phichit arrived to distract him with a cup of tea.

 

__

 

 

Whatever renovations had been planned for the fourth floor were long since done, though every now and then Yuuri would catch a glimpse of some oddly shaped box being wheeled through to the service elevator. Large banners had been hung from the front of the building, posters and flyers were everywhere, and the notoriously stingy Board of Directors had even hired a full time curator just for the exhibit.

As distracted as Yuuri was, even he could feel the buzz and excitement that filled all the museum staff.

He ducked through the museum when he had to, half hopeful, half dreading any sight of the beautiful man, though he never caught so much as a glimpse of platinum hair. At night, he struggled to paint something, _anything_ , that he could submit.

He was taking the correct bus to get home these days – it took only minutes, though the passengers seemed almost alien to him. Every now and then he’d see his old bus pass by, heading in the opposite direction, or stopped across the road as he stood waiting for his bus. Once or twice he even thought he saw one or the other of his regulars staring back at him, but he decided that was probably his imagination.

The contest was a bare month away, and Yuuri had started to wonder how hard it would be to fake his own death and disappear from the city. He’d have to do it properly. He was surrounded by persistent, well-meaning people who would probably track him down if there was the slightest doubt he was dead.

He knew he really could go back and work at his parent’s inn – his parents wouldn’t pry too much. His sister would, in her own way, but that would be more bearable than the constant stream of people who kept telling him how excited they were to see his submission for the damned contest.

Mostly, Yuuri did his best to think as little as possible. It helped that the whole museum was so busy getting ready for the special exhibit – and though Mr. Buck had eventually let the board know they wouldn’t be able to handle the catering themselves, nearly all the café employees would be working as wait staff for the official caterers. Yuuri was not, for which he was grateful. 

The café closed early the day of the reception, and Yuuri was taking the opportunity to put away the new cups and spoons he’d finally managed to get Mr. Buck to requisition.

“What are you still doing here?”

Mr. Buck’s voice startled Yuuri. He glanced up, and had to suppress his amusement as he realized the manager was standing a good five feet back from the coffee counter. Yuuri wasn’t sure if it was due to the ban, or because he was genuinely afraid of the machines behind the bar. In either case, Yuuri was grateful for it. He didn’t want to have to deal with any new disasters for the moment.

“I’m putting away the new supplies.” And he held up one of the new cups. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Oh, right.” Mr. Buck shifted his large form from foot to foot, uncharacteristically hesitant. And then, clearly making up his mind, the manager lifted his eyes to meet Yuuri’s. “I think you need to go.”

“I will, in a minute.” And then at the serious expression on the manager’s face, Yuuri blinked. “Are you firing me?”

“ _Hell_ no.” And the horror in the manager’s face soothed Yuuri’s startled surprise. “I mean you should go to the exhibit, the reception. Upstairs.” The big man stepped forward, dropping a slip of paper on the counter and then quickly stepping back a safe distance from the coffee machines.

“It’s a ticket. I got you one, but I wasn’t sure if- if it was a good idea.” The man was clearly uncomfortable.

Slowly reaching out, Yuuri picked up the slip of paper, staring down at it.

“You’re an amazing artist, you know. Good in the café too, of course. But your art is something remarkable.” The man’s voice was as quiet, as serious as Yuuri had ever heard it, without even a trace of his usual heartiness. Yuuri looked up to find the man’s eyes watching him carefully. “I may not know a blasted thing about making coffee, but I know art. And that’s why you need to go.”

“Why?”

Mr. Buck hesitated. “The contest is coming up again. You know there isn’t a person in the museum that isn’t waiting to see what you’ve painted for it. You’re one of ours, after all. But – it’s not going well, is it?”

Wordlessly, Yuuri shook his head.

“Right.” Mr. Buck nodded. “I didn’t think so. I know you used to tour the museum every break you had, studying all the new artists. Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“No.”

“Well, you should start again. This artist is amazing. Peculiar, of course, but I think – you should go.” And then he scowled at Yuuri. “You should be having your own exhibit by now, up there.” And he jerked a finger up towards the fourth floor. “Get on with it.”

Yuuri hesitated, staring down at the ticket. “I’m not really that good.”

“Bullcrap.”

Yuuri blinked.

The manager had moved in, forgetting to keep his distance from the machines, and Yuuri was the one to take a step back at the strong emotion on the man’s face. “It isn’t _your_ job to decide if you’re good or not. You just make the stuff. And if anyone else tells you your art isn’t anything but the best, you ignore them, and keep right on drawing. You hear me?”

“Well, yes.” It was hard not to, as Mr. Buck was yelling.

“Good.” The man slapped his hand down on the counter, and Yuuri jumped forward to remove the box of suddenly clattering cups. “Now go home and get dressed. It’s black tie.”

“Yes, boss.”

Mr. Buck broke into a grin. “Careful with that. I might enjoy being called boss too much and try to actually run this place.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened in horror, not in any way exaggerated. “Oh, no. Please.”

Narrowing his eyes at the expression on Yuuri’s face, Mr. Buck snorted. “Hmph. Get going, or I really will fire you.”

“Yes, bo- Mr. Buck.” And Yuuri pulled off his apron.

 

__

 

Yuuri showered and dressed in record time, and if he’d gone for a taxi probably would have made it for the official ribbon cutting. As it was, he arrived just as the last of the opening speeches ended, and the attendees, all dressed in their best finery, started exploring. The exhibit took up three quarters of the fourth floor, and wound through several vast halls, as well as smaller side rooms.  

As he moved through the crowds still clumped in groups around tables of champagne and small food things that he didn’t recognize, Yuuri started to feel more and more out of place. Sparkling diamonds glittering against floor length dresses and fitted suits were clearly leagues above his own well-worn, slightly too small suit.

And then he stepped inside the first large hall, and he forgot about everyone else. A statue stood at the very center of the room. A girl, far larger than life, carved from white stone. She sat on a chair, staring slightly down as if determined to make eye contact with everyone that walked in. Every bit of her was incredible.

Her braided hair wound down over both of her shoulders, and as Yuuri moved closer he saw the fine detail of her fingers, loosely woven together in her lap, so well carved that he almost thought she had been molded from life.  

When he finally moved on to the other rooms, Yuuri realized why the museum had needed to put in plumbing. Several of the pieces used water – spouting, flowing, or cascading. Others used light and shadow, both directed down from the walls and ceiling, and bursting out between cracks from the inside of the sculptures.

In one small, dark room, Yuuri couldn’t take his eyes off a small series of sculptures covered in green moss.

And despite all the differences, all had clearly been sculpted by the same hands. The style was larger than life, and every element combined to produce the final effect, but no effort was wasted on anything that wasn’t necessary. Sometimes a face and part of a torso would be finely detailed, the rest merely hinted at, almost uncarved, clearly unimportant.

Each new sculpture made him wish he’d had his sketchbook with him, and he knew he’d be coming back often while the exhibit was here.

“Oh, Yuuri!” And Yuuri was so distracted that he couldn’t even feel the usual alarm as he looked up to find Professor Cialdini bearing down on him. The man was asking him the usual awkward questions, but Yuuri barely registered them, or his own answers.

Clearly realizing he didn’t have Yuuri’s full attention, Professor Cialdini beamed at him. “They are remarkable, aren’t they.”

Yuuri blinked at that, pulling his attention back in. “I’m sorry?”

“Mr. Nikiforov’s sculptures.”

“Oh, yes.” Yuuri breathed, turning his eyes back to the sculpture in front of him. “It’s amazing. So much detail, but only where it needs to be. Every new piece I see is a surprise.”   

“Oh, Victor!”

Yuuri blinked at the Professor’s voice.  _Victor_. That was the name of the artist. He’d seen enough of the posters hanging around to know that much.  

“Professor Cialdini.” The voice was rich, deep, and accented.

Yuuri turned slowly, eyes scanning over the small crowd that had formed, or maybe just followed the sculptor, who must have stopped to speak to the professor. He recognized a few members of the museum’s board, a dean from the Institute, a few of the more famous local artists. And then his eyes landed on the man who had spoken, and Yuuri felt everything click into place.

The beautiful man stood at the front of the crowd, pale blue eyes studying Yuuri.  

Dimly, Yuuri heard Professor Cialdini say something about ‘Most promising student I ever had’, and more words he didn’t follow. When the professor touched his arm, Yuuri dragged his attention back enough to realize he was being asked what he thought.

“You’re beautiful.”

Yuuri’s eyes were on the man – Victor – and he didn’t realize what he’d said until he heard the muffled chuckle of the blond man standing beside Victor.

Choking, Yuuri scrambled to form more words. “Your _art_. Your art is beautiful.”

Victor smiled at him. “Thank you.” His accent was thick, beautiful. Russian, Yuuri thought.  

The others in the crowd jumped in to fill the awkward silence that followed, and then someone – one of the museum’s board of directors, Yuuri thought - arrived to introduce another well-dressed couple to Victor, and in the ensuing shuffle Yuuri managed to escape.

And he ran all the way home.

 

\---

 

Yuuri stared at his ceiling most of that night, and knew he was something of a zombie at work the next day. Mr. Buck took one look at him, scowled, and was even more grumpy than usual when Minami had to ask him to arrange for a plumber to fix one of the sinks.

And when Yuuri left for the day, it wasn’t until he actually sat down that he realized he’d gotten on the long bus home. When the bus pulled around to the main entrance, he’d just gathered up his bag to get off again when Victor leaped in through the doors.

He saw Yuuri, and his whole face brightened.

Yuuri sank back down to his seat, watching as Victor moved closer and closer. He sat beside Yuuri, and smiled at him.  

“Hello.”

“Ah. Hi.” A mass of confusion, embarrassment, and intense happiness twisted inside of Yuuri.

“You have been drawing me?”

Yuuri choked, and then coughed, managing a nod.

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.”

Victor’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Why?”

“Well-” Yuuri struggled to find words. “I didn’t ask.”

_And I maybe stalked you a little._

Blinking, Victor studied Yuuri. And then he smiled. “I need to show you something. Come with me.” The last wasn’t really a question.

All Yuuri could do was nod.

They got off at Victor’s usual stop, and Yuuri could not ignore the way everyone on the bus – and there seemed to be rather more familiar faces than usual today - seemed to be smiling openly at both of them, as if they knew something Yuuri didn’t. Even the driver grinned up at Victor.

“You caught him this time.”

Victor laughed. “I did.”

Yuuri had no idea what was going on, but he followed Victor.  

They walked in silence halfway down the street, before Victor led the way up a short set of stairs to a front door. He didn’t knock, but turned the knob and stepped inside, gesturing for Yuuri to follow.

A long hallway seemed to go the length of the house, and Yuuri saw glass paneled doors leading to a small green garden at the back of the house. A door halfway down the hall opened, and the blond man who’d been with Victor the night before stepped out.

With a shock, Yuuri realized the man was Christophe Giacometti. He was an alumni of the Institute, though Yuuri hadn’t ever met him before. He was also one of the most famous contemporary sculptors in the world.

“You found him!” He grinned at Yuuri, though his words were for Victor. “Will he be staying for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Victor and Yuuri spoke at the same time, though Yuuri thought his voice was more like a squeak.

Evidently taking Victor’s word, the man nodded and, with a wink at Yuuri, ducked back into the room he’d come from, speaking to someone else Yuuri couldn’t see.  

Taking Yuuri’s wrist, Victor pulled him into the house. They climbed two flights of stairs and then walked down a long hallway to a room at the back of the house. It was a studio of some kind, well lit by the full ceiling of windows above them, walls lined with countless drawers and shelves full to overflowing with supplies. Tools Yuuri didn’t recognize hung in neat rows, and easels and buckets of clay stood neatly to one side of the room.

Yuuri felt a surge of lust for the studio. It was a dream all on its own.

“Here.” Victor tugged at Yuuri’s arm, leading him to a raised desk in one corner of the room. Sketches hung by clips from wire strung from the ceiling, and a sketchbook lay open on the desk.

Yuuri’s arm was suddenly free, and he hesitated, stepping forward until he could stare down at the sketchbook. His eyes widened. “That’s me!”

“Yes.”

Yuuri looked up. Victor was smiling at him. “I didn’t ask you either.”

“Oh.” And Yuuri glanced back down at the sketches. “They’re very good.”

“Yes.” Victor reached around Yuuri to pull out a sketch that had been tucked into the back of the sketchbook. “So is this.”

Sucking in a breath, Yuuri recognized the sketch. He had dozens very similar to it on his wall, as he’d drawn them all. He must have left one behind when he’d dropped them on the bus.

Victor cocked his head. “You drew this, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” And with a smile, Victor took Yuuri’s hand and started tugging him from the room again.

“Victor?”

The man stopped so suddenly that Yuuri almost ran into his back. The smile he shot Yuuri was a little different than any Yuuri had seen so far. A little rueful, almost as if he was amused at himself. “I do like the sound of that.”

“What?”

“You saying my name.” And before Yuuri could wrap his mind around that, Victor was moving again. He led Yuuri into another room, a bedroom this time, and across to a painting that hung on the wall.

Yuuri knew this painting too, very well. He’d painted it. It was the one he’d submitted for the same contest he was now struggling to deal with, four years later.

This painting was the one he’d won with.

He’d been told the thing sold for a ridiculous amount of money, which only made him more anxious when he realized everyone expected him to repeat his success.

“This is my room when I stay with Chris. He put this in here to torture me.”

“ _Torture_. Why-”

“Because he won’t sell it to me.”  Victor turned to smile at Yuuri again. “He told me I would have to get you to paint me something of my own. Which is why, when I was asked to do a special exhibit at this museum, I insisted it had to overlap with this year’s contest, in case you entered again.”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped.

“And my exhibit had to be larger than any I’d ever done, so I knew you’d come see it.” And his smile turned into a genuine grin. “And then I saw your sketch, and realized who you most likely were.”

Yuuri was beyond shocked. He stared at Victor. “You were trying to find me? With your exhibit?”

“Yes.” Victor angled his head. “And then _you_ found _me_.”

Yuuri blinked. “I did?”

“Oh, yes.” And, beaming, Victor took both of Yuuri’s hands in his. “So, now. I’d like to see you more.”

“You would?” Something was building in Yuuri’s chest.

“Yes.” Victor smiled. “Will you sit for me?”

And at that, Yuuri felt whatever had been building in him fizzle out. Somehow very, very disappointed, though he wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected, Yuuri tried to infuse his voice with enthusiasm. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Good.” Victor beamed at him. “And will you paint something for me, too?”

“Ah. I’ll try?” Yuuri could not put any strength into that at all.

“Excellent. We will have to work out a schedule. I must catch up with you, since you’ve had longer to work on drawing me.”

“Well. That sounds fair.” Excitement started to build in Yuuri again as he stared up at Victor’s beautiful face. He’d be seeing that face a lot more. That was enough for now.

 _For now? What else_ could _I be looking for?_

But he couldn’t think that through as Victor grinned back at him. “I think we will have to have a lot of sittings.”

“Okay.” Was all Yuuri could manage.

 

__

 

The submissions for the contest filled two vast halls on the bottom floor of the museum. Yuuri stood against the wall in the first of them, rocking on his heels. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if he could escape before his bowtie strangled him. It felt as if it was getting tighter by the minute.

And then hands were at his throat, pulling away the tie and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. Victor shook his head at him, staring down in disgust at the fake bowtie Yuuri had been wearing. “Really, Yuuri.”

Yuuri grinned, ignoring the man’s horror at his tie. “You made it!”

“Of course.” And Victor smiled at him, even as he stuffed the bowtie in his pocket, well out of sight. He looked up at the large painting on the wall behind Yuuri. “Though I still can’t believe you didn’t paint me, after all those sittings we did.”

Yuuri felt his cheeks flush, and Victor grinned back at him, eyes bright.

“Well.” Yuuri began, and then cleared his throat, deliberately looking away, towards his painting. It wasn’t of Victor, but of his regulars on the bus. Each sat regally, their seat their individual throne, their faces and every inch of their clothes as richly detailed as if the painting were some old master’s commission of royalty in their best gowns.

He was proud of it. And maybe someday he’d tell Victor that he’d imagined the man was there too, sitting beside him as he drew the others.

And then Victor took Yuuri’s hand, grinning at him as their eyes met. “We’ll have to schedule some more sittings. I need to work on some angles I think I’ve missed.”

“Okay. But first,” And Yuuri smiled happily back up at Victor.  “Would you go on a date with me?”


End file.
